fuck sourdough.

a theme of honesty.

FUCKING SOURDOUGH BREAD. Why the fuck is this old carpet of a hard loaf worthy of £5? It is already stale and full of holes, when you cut it, which is an art form I haven’t the talent for. I want Hovis! I hate Sourdough bread and I also hate this stupid habit that people have here of kissing everyone, on both cheeks. WTF is that about? They then wonder why, after a party they all have colds and flu. Get the fuck away from me, if I know or rather, if I like you, you’ll get a hug, why would you expect anything more!

I’ve been full of anxiety all week because next weekend, the house will be full of people and as a reclusive person I am already screaming. I truly am screaming inside at the thought, my blood pressure must be up this morning but I don’t have a strappy thing to home test it. It is torture because not only will people be staying but each night involves festivities , going out for the point of going out. I fucking hate weekends here.

I never thought I’d live in GL7 land and so far its not exactly been a Soho farmhouse membership Country life cover cross breed of a lifestyle that I’ve slotted into well or if at all, for the record, I fucking hate Soho farmhouse and its been an emotional strange, class revealing episode of my life that has seem much suffering to both me and indeed admittedly my dear partner for whose purpose - we or rather I, am trying to navigate still this part of the world and learn how to breathe within it, whilst maintaining a relationship.

Unfortunately with no marriage I cannot say with security of having my name on the deeds that ‘CHARLES and I lead separate lives’ My advice kids, get married during the honeymoon period not after! Believe me the thousands I have spent on this cottage garden here means I’m not going easily so we are working through it, a work in progress! I also have my little bit of land that I rent on a nearby farm where my hens live but more on them another time, this post is gritty we don’t need tales of egg collecting here.

Today, I am going to Nottingham ‘back home’ with no eggs as the hens are not laying well. Instead a lot of bulbs for my mum and gran that I have not got space to plant here. I am delighted because you can of late, get a bus from the village that takes you to Swindon train station for £2. If this service did not run it would cost instead £40 by taxi to either Swindon or Charlbury. And yes dearest reader I do not drive. People love to make a stab over this at parties, ‘You can’t drive, how do you manage’ It is as if they can be legally pecky about this modern disability without fearing any repercussions. Eventually I take the bait and state that I probably see more of the country despite not having a great big 4 x 4 parked outside and I just have to plan what I’m doing and take Taxi’s.

My often said phase of ‘back home’ shows the danger of me still wanting to run back to childhood, back to my grans little bunglow, back to grotty hucknall that I know like the back of my hand, back to the market chippy and back to the front gardens of terraced houses that have been turned into rented multiple occupancy dwellings where hydrangea heads can be easily plucked outside of without anyone caring or noticing as a result.

I will say this for my village in GL7, the churchyard has a good supply of moss that at this time of the year, is most helpful. I am wreathe making with the lovely Rachel De Thame in December at her wonderful Charles Dickens like Manor House in Broadwell. Quite incredible to know the lady who my nana Min loved to watch when I was little on Gardener’s World and would gasp at the announcement that Rachel was pregnant and so would be having a break from the programme, my Nan had reared 6 children so I think these gasps were a form of female salute. It is a good place for contacts and also as it is a place full of money it is a very good place to set up camp to try and provide a service that people will pay good money for. A box of home laid free range eggs can get you £3 and a jar of local honey is at the £8 mark, quite right too.

I first ‘lived’ or rather worked in this part of the world indeed partly for a wanker although my wage was not paid by this particular person but by his then wife’s company. Anyway, it was a cold part of the world, a garden masquerading as a pheasant shoot.

Perhaps that is why I am now at 32 determined to always work for Arthur Parkinson rather than someone else, when you have, as many gardeners experience, many a dreadful employer you do not begin to job search gardening positions in a hurry, my back is ever thankful! I used to like pheasants but I don’t really these days. They jump out of the grass as you are cycling which is awful and they strut about like fat chickens quite brainless, they taste very good but very few lets face it end up being plucked to be eaten. Also with the bird flu, the mass releasing of them is a real risk, indeed a proven one now of them spreading this dreadful disease about the place. They have always been rich in parasitic worms such as gape worm which is dreadful for chickens to contract.

You might begin to sense now, why I am on here, I need a level of therapy outspokenness, a good bitch up, a share of thoughts yes ! I’ve become sick of the Instagram pack like perfect dynamic, it is hugely incestuous. Like the stupid parties of kissing on the cheeks nothing with true heart, a lot of envelope opening. One of the biggest openers of envelopes once claimed to be reclusive like me, I’ll never forget this person stating that and this is a person who is at every launch, every talk, every sponsored brand lunch, I’M just observing I’m not bitter, my tone is probably bitter but when do these people actually work!

You see I love the countryside through certain people and from me having memory banks of it. If I am really having a down day or not a down day actually when I just need a good voice in my head, I put Clarissa Dickson- Wright on as she narrates 3 of her books wonderfully on Audible with such clarity and strong will and knowing of her mind.

This much admired part of England that the rest of the world coverts is to me very odd. Never mind a farming inheritance tax, I tell you the whole country would hate me a hell of a lot because the first thing I’d do is being in a second home tax! Oh yes! As I write this, the cottage next door (which is much bigger than this one) is hardly used. It looks lived in but they are not here, so yes they would be taxed, sorry but I would, I’d tax the sods the sods, who when they do appear, are banging on our door about the over hanging foliage letter we all got from the Parish council two weeks ago. This apparently means that the waste disposable lorry, cannot get up the tiny lane. It is these second homers who insisted that at either end of the lovely little lane that we put signage up to dissuade vans. And so at each end of it, are these great motorway sized blue signs, that are not read or noticed anyway. An ambulance has just squeezed past the house, squashing the foxglove seedlings.

anyway little moaning, selfish diary vent over. I hope you enjoyed. I’ll do more if you did! best Arthur